Part Nineteen of The Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: The Bristol Rovers Return.

We left James Churchill Proudfoot a.k.a. Threefeet of the Yard last time about to set off with two Russian agents and an Irish gangster to seek out and destroy the shady organisation they know only as the Khalistan Warriors.

The Russians have done things like this before. But Jim hasn’t. Will they succeed once more?

Finally, the time to depart to the Bristol Rovers Return in London’s East End had arrived in Buckinghamshire. Joe was behind the wheel of his Range Rover; Grigor and Jim in the back. All three of them were wearing dark blue overalls with Paddy’s Potatoes smartly embroidered on the chests.  Next to Joe-Boy in the passenger seat, sweating profusely and with his eyes the size of saucepans was Vladimir. He was also wearing overalls. But these were green and had reflective yellow armbands and a bright red waistband plus the words Thames Electricity written in bold letters on the back. They set off and Joe immediately made each one of his passengers take it in turns to repeat exactly what they were going to do once they reached the pub.

Three of them were going to actually enter the building. Joe-Boy would stay in the car, ready to make a quick getaway. He would only leave it and enter the Bristol if something went badly askew. With his bright red hair and beard, his face would be the most memorable if anything went wrong, he argued.  Which was true. He was too modest to add that he was also memorable for his extraordinary good looks whereas two of the others had faces more like the tubers their bags were full of. And Vlad had a face that looked like proof that the Gestapo had started drug dealing: and sampling far too many of their own products into the bargain.

It took them almost an hour and a half to reach the Bristol, by which time it was dark.They dropped Vlad off first and parked round the corner in the shadows and waited.

The Russian strode into the huge, brightly-lit Victorian edifice and marched confidently up to the bar.

Inside the Bristol, it was very much Business as Normal in the community boozer as the staff discussed the usual goings-on in the boring little London Borough of Wolford where the pub was situated.

Landlady Madge was just coming to terms with the unexpected news she had received when long-term playboy husband Dodgy Daryl had served her with divorce papers on Xmas Day. Which wasn’t helped when it turned-out that daughter Yvonne – who was pregnant yet again and god alone knew who by this time – had swapped a baby she had just given birth to with that of a woman confusingly called Ronnie who had recently suffered a stillbirth. Ronnie was now claiming to be a man and refusing to say who the father of his or her new baby actually was either but Dodgy Daryl was definitely in the frame. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she was still in a state of shock after discovering that what she had previously thought was her older sister (Randy) Mandy was actually her mother. And Mandy a confirmed Lesbian at that!

“I fink I’m yer Muvva!” she had said, “But I’m not sure!  See – I donated some eggs to a fertility programme to a laboratory to ‘elp the childless some time ago, bein’ the sweet, compassionate, caring slag wot I am! But a dog called Doodle ate ‘em all – straight up! Believe it or not, free monfs later, she gives birf, don’t she?: ‘ence the first ever Laboratory-Doodle!”

“Don’t you take no mind of ‘er!” said barmaid Dotty, who was precisely that. “My cheatin’ nonce of an `usband told me the same bleedin’ story! Admitted ‘e was the Labrador at the time when I called him a Dirty Dog! Lyin’ scumbag! So I poisoned his dinner – Pedigree Chum – didn’t I? ‘E won’t do it again in an ‘urry!”

“Was that before or after he knew ‘e had HIV?” asked Madge.

“Before. I fink… But definitely before he ‘ad an affair wiv his bruvver’s Auntie wot was married to Phil the Paedo!”

“Oi remember ‘im!” exclaimed Babs, the other barmaid. “Narsty little Germ! Didn’t he get stabbed by that dodgy geezer Shakil?”

“Nah!” said Dotty. “’E died in the Car Lot arson didn’t ‘e?… Or was it in the boat crash?”

“I fort it was by a knife stickin’ out of a dishwasher!” said Madge, “Or when the local shop collapsed wiv all them Afghan asylum seekers squattin’ in the attic. You remember – when the police ‘elicopter hijacked by Muslim extremists landed on it! Who’d have fort the entire Cabinet was ‘avin’ a meetin’ in the downstairs of the shop at the same time, neiver!“

But Babs was reading the local free newpaper and took this moment to share it with her work-mates:

“Blimey! It sez ‘ere that there’s a place app norf somewhere – Newcastle on Time…”

“I fink it’s Barrer, in all fairmess” said Madge, who had been reading the same article.

“Yeah – that’s the place: Barrer in Fairness! There’s an island somewhere near it wiv’ a pub on it – an’ some Sikhy bloke ‘as got turned into a Chinese Take-Away there!  At gunpoint! In the pub! Woss the weld comin’ to, eh?”

“Oh for Gawd’s sake Babs!!” sneered Madge, ”You need to learn to read proper, you do! The Sikhy geezer wasn’t made into a Take-Away! ‘E got taken away – kidnapped – by a load of Chinkies or so it says. But it’s all a load of tosh! Kidnappin’ in a bleedin’ pub? Woss next?: blowin’ the gaffe up wiv dynamite? I should cocoa! Oh…. ‘Ello, ‘andsome!”

The landlady patted her hair coquettishly as she turned to address a newcomer at the bar.

The man was slim and wearing overalls with the words THAMES ELECTRICITY written on them. He had a slightly strange, fixed expression on his sweaty face exaggerated by the steel-rimmed glasses which magnified his staring, very pale blue eyes. The man not so much spoke as shouted:

“Dobry Vecher Madam! I need to inspect your dials!”

“Oooh – cheeky!” said Madge. “Nobody’s inspected my dials for longer than I like to remember, me old China!”

“China? You misunderstand, woman! I am Russian cheeky chappie, very well integrated into British society. Knees Up Mother Brown and Cor Blimey almighty – see? Please direct me towards your electricity meter without further delay! There are certain adjustments urgently needed!”

Well – what could be more natural than an Eastern European electrician or plumber or meter-reader or parcel delivery driver entering a pub in London and making such a request?

Actually, what could be more natural than an Eastern European electrician or plumber or meter-reader or parcel delivery driver entering a pub in London and making such a request these days?

So in no time at all, Vladimir found himself in the basement of the Bristol, searching not for the electricity meter as he had told gullible old Madge but actually for the gas supply. This is where he intended to place four of his bombs. He sent a message to his companions in the Range Rover, which drew up to the entrance to the rear bar in the darkness. Vlad led the way back into the cellar carrying a bag of spuds; Jim struggling in his wake with another as Grigor brought up the rear, one bag of potatoes balanced on each shoulder. Vlad showed them where to place these terrifying objects and got on with disguising them with some old palates he had found in a corner as his two companions then returned to the rear entrance and started planting the six bombs that were left in the toilets downstairs. In case he was disturbed by women as he went about his nefarious work in the Ladies, Grigor was wearing a disguise: a long blonde wig which made him look about as feminine as a male Orang-utan. But it was still early in the evening and he fortunately wasn’t disturbed or interrupted at all as he breezed through his deadly work.

Jim, however, was already struggling when he returned to the rear entrance and lugged the final bag of spuds he needed to place behind an old-fashioned cistern fitted high up above the toilet pan in the Gents. These damned bags were heavy! And it was almost more than he could do to lift them into place.

Job finally done, he sat on the closed toilet seat in the cubicle he had selected and tried to get his breath back.

What did Joe-Boy tell him he had to do now? Take the overalls off. Roll them up and put them in the bag to be found in the inside pocket. Then return to the car, remembering not to leave anything incriminating behind.

”Except the bombs!” he thought bitterly. Then he managed to pull his shoes off and – after a struggle – the overalls as well. He bundled them up into the bag as instructed and then opened the cubicle door to leave. But he had been so busy swearing under his breath and noisily struggling that he didn’t hear anyone enter the toilet. And there – to his horror – he found a large Sikh wearing a red turban blocking the exit as he took advantage of one of the urinals. The Indian didn’t seem to notice Jim until, with a deep sigh, he did-up his flies and turned towards the sink.

“Good evening!” said Chopper – for that was indeed who it was. He may be a crook but at least he was a polite crook.

Now, we’ve already experienced what Jim would usually do in a situation like this – because not only wasn’t he a polite crook, he was also a very racist one indeed. But this was a big guy in an enclosed space so Jim reluctantly decided to relent and return the greeting.

Chopper turned from the sink to get a better look at his new companion. What he saw was an overweight man with a personal hygiene problem and clothes that looked like they were Charity Shop rejects. Furthermore, he had the complexion a heavy drinker. But…

“Nice suit you’re wearing!” the Sikh said. “Very smart! Good to see in these Devil-may-Care days! Nice to meet a fellow professional!”

“A fellow professional?” repeated Jim.

“Yes. I am Ranjit Singh Chopra, the CEO of Khalistan Warriors. You may have heard of us!”

“The Khalli Scal…”’ Jim almost blurted before he could stop himself. “Oh – the owners of Shrimpleton Town football club?”

“The very same!” said Chopper, looking delighted. “Do you have any interest in football Mr…”

“Threefeet!” said Jim, causing the big Sikh to look towards the floor and Jim’s shoes.

“Jim Threefeet – that’s my name! Yes – to answer your question – I do have an interest in Association Football. I was once the Commercial Director at… Fulham!” he said, plucking the name of a club from the air.

“Craven Cottage?”

“No – just the club. We had another executive who looked after the Cottages!”

Chopper eyed Jim suspiciously. But his judgement of men like this one was usually sound.

”It’s funny you should say that!” he said. “Because a vacancy has just arisen at our club for a Chief Operating Officer. Immediate start. Cash in hand. First job: to organise a Fete…”

“Fate? Not worse then death I hope?” said Jim, a worried expression on his face all of a sudden as he became only too aware of the three bags of potatoes and their deadly cargo which he had planted just a few feet away from them. Chopper smiled back at him.

“No – a fete; you know: a Gala to publicise the club to the international press. On Sunday.”

“I can do it!” said Jim, getting so excited by a possible way out of the tricky situation he was currently in – and some easy money – that he asked his usual questions in the wrong order. “How much?”

Chopper removed a massive wad of notes which were rolled together and held by a rubber band from an inside pocket. He slowly peeled-off ten of them and held them out towards Jim.

“Shall we say one hundred pounds expenses; two hundred pounds towards the Gala itself – and a two hundred pound initial fee? There’s plenty more where that came from!”

Jim almost ripped the fifty-pound notes from the Indian’s hand.

“It just so happens that I’m at a bit of a loose end at the moment. I can start immediately!”

“Good!” said Chopper. “If you hurry, there’s a train to Preston from Euston in about an hour. From there, you can get the Barrow-in-Furness train and take a ferry from there. Tell the islanders that if they play their cards right, no less a Bollywood sensation than Simran could be putting in a personal appearance on Sunday!”

“Simran!” thought Jim, almost regretting the fact that this Gala would never actually happen. Even he knew who that little sex bomb was! Just to make sure he had heard right, he repeated:

“Simran could be putting in a personal appearance on Sunday? At the football ground?”

“At The Black Pool, yes!”

“Blackpool? Or the island? – this geezer needed to make his flamin’ mind up!” thought Jim.

As if reading his thoughts, the big Sikh continued:

“The Black Pool is the football club’s ground. Don’t ask me why it’s called that. Some local superstition to do with witches or Black Cats or some such, no doubt! Those islanders are simple, superstitious people, you know!”

Chopper turned to leave the Gents and then thought better of it. He turned to face Jim and said, finally:

“Take this.”

He offered Jim a business card. “Ring me as soon as you get to the island. Nice to meet you!”

And with that, Ranjit Singh Chopra returned to his companions back in the main body of the pub.

Jim couldn’t believe his luck. He had been slaving away all week, busting a gut for people who didn’t appreciate him at all – and kept their money closer to their chests than a Marks & Sparks elasticated string vest – and here was a charming foreign chap just virtually giving it away!

He decided there and then not to return to Buckinghamshire tonight. Instead – knowing that Joe-Boy, Grigor and Vladimir were waiting for him in the car parked at the rear of the pub – he sneaked out of the front door of the Bristol and headed for the Tube station which he had seen just round the corner on the way here. It almost seemed a shame that Mr Chopper and his pals were all going to be atomised come midnight. But by then, Jim was confident that he would be back in his bedsit where nobody would ever find him.

—-

It was almost midnight by the time Joseph Aleksandrovitch Kelly, Grigor and Vladimir had returned to Joe-Boy’s huge house somewhere in Buckinghamshire. The drug dealer was feeling particularly pleased with himself. He had already produced another bottle of Imperial vodka and he now offered a triumphalist toast to his two companions:

“Great job tonight, boys! It’s Bye-Bye to the Khalistan Warriors! And good riddance to that creepy little Threefeet of the Yard fellah too!”

“We should have disposed of him!” said Vladimir grimly. “He could go to the police! Or his minders in MI6!”

“You an’ your disposin’ of people, Vlad! He won’t go to the police! Oi bet they’ve got a list of croimes he’s committed as long as yer arm! And if he’s a secret agent, then I’m a leprechaun! Arra – sure, we’ll all be better-off without the smelly little gobshoite!”

It was five to twelve when – their glasses refilled a couple of times – they all settled down to look at a live feed from the Bristol in London. Grigor was pleased with himself for a Job Well Done: it was he, after all, who had planted the camera they were viewing the scene in the main bar through at this moment and had established a line to it to make this possible. In the centre of the screen was a picture of a man in a dirty raincoat who Grigor recognised. This man had offered him twenty quid to step outside for some purpose the Tartar could only guess at when it happened until he remembered he was still wearing the long blonde wig. Once he removed it, the offer was hastily withdrawn for whatever reason. But far more interestingly, Ranjit Singh Chopra and three men wearing bright red turbans were clearly visible, sitting near the window at a table covered in papers and glasses of booze as they excitedly chatted to each other. Grigor knew that on the other side of the wall they were sitting against was the Ladies’ toilet. And he also knew that – on the lids of the old-fashioned cisterns which almost touched the ceiling within – three cubicles contained bombs which he had personally placed there himself earlier. Just one of these devices would blow these three men with the alien headdresses to pieces: three acting in unison would literally vapourise them. Not that Grigor and his pals would actually see this happen – a millisecond later, the camera would be reduced to atoms as well. The Khalistan Warriors didn’t stand a chance…

Grigor was also pleased with a second shot he had set-up of the exterior of the huge pub which he had achieved by placing another camera out of sight on the roof of a bus shelter almost directly opposite the Bristol’s entrance. You could see this on another monitor among the bank of screens the four men were currently staring at.  In less than a handful of minutes the outrage they had so carefully planned would actually happen. It was very exciting.

Vladimir was sitting next to Grigor, a vein throbbing in his forehead, such was the almost unbearable anticipation he was experiencing of the moment of release – of sheer ecstasy – when the bombs finally exploded. He was quite drunk, partially on alcohol but also on the sort of very basic but extraordinarily powerful thrill that extreme violence had always given him. And in a very few moments, he would look at the screen fed by the camera on the bus shelter roof and see a Victorian pile be consumed by fire and the sheer force of the explosions which would wrack it in a moment of unbridled supercharged power. He could hardly contain himself; his barely pent-up excitement almost tangible. It would, for big, bad Vlad at least, be the nearest thing to an orgasm that psychopaths of his sort probably ever achieve.

As for Joe-Boy himself, he was thinking about his beloved Da and how proud he would be of his only son and heir tonight. He looked up at the ceiling and winked heavenwards.

It was two minutes to twelve.

Joe’s phone rang. He almost said “Da?” as he momentarily wondered if Heaven had answered before realising that his Da would be more likely ringing from the place Downstairs anyway. Then he smiled to himself. If he’d said `Da’; it would be a pun, wouldn’t it? – with his Old Man being Russian and all that…

He took the device out of his pocket and clearly was in two minds about whether or not to answer it. It was Agnes the cook; Giles’ Mother.

But then he wondered what the poor old dear wanted. At this time of night, it must be urgent, mustn’t it? So he relented:

“Hiya Agnes – how’s it hangin’ me love?”

He put his phone on speaker so they could all hear the conversation.

“Good evenin’ Master Joseph! Sorry to disturb you, loike Zur but Oi’d just like to mention somethin’ young Giles had just said to me. Thought it might be of interest to you Master!”

“Get away witch yer!”

It was one minute to midnight.

“You know how that daft boy of mine keeps forgettin’ to put stuff back in the fridge?”

“And den it goes off? Ah, sure – don’t worry about it Agnes!”

“But I do worry about it Zur! Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that it didn’t happen today!”

Joe was confused but before he could say any more, the old lady continued:

“So don’t worry about them debt things you was putting in your car this mornin’!”

“Them `debt things’ Agnes? What debt things?”

“Giles said they was in with the spuds: shiny things – like gold – with wires on them! In little plastic boxes!”

Silence fell on the room as the four men wondered what on earth this woman was on about. In with the spuds? Shiny? Like gold? With wires on them? Debt things?

“’E was ever so careful, Zur! Said he double-checked there wasn’t none left in the car!”

“Oh moi Sweet Jasus!” exclaimed Joe-Boy as the penny suddenly dropped. `Debt’ wasn’t the word Agnes was saying! It was `det’ – as in “Detonators!”

“That’s dem Zur! Well Giles said he overheard one of your men sayin’ you needed to be particularly careful this mornin’ – in case they went off prem – prem – prem-a summin or other! So you’ll be relieved to hear that he took `em all out of the car and put them right back in the fridge! All ten of ‘em! They won’t go off now! Oi’m roight proud of him. He…”

“Right back in the fridge?” repeated Joe-Boy as the full horror of what Agnes was telling him became absolutely clear:

“Right back in the fridge?” he repeated incredulously as reality suddenly dawned on him and Joseph Aleksandrovitch Kelly pictured the scene downstairs in the kitchen:

“Right back in the fridge” – with the remaining Semtex…

It was four seconds to midnight. Three… Two… One…

“Hello!” said Agnes into her mobile phone a second later. “Hello! Is there anybody there?”

She had just heard an enormous explosion from somewhere not too far away. The windows rattled and dust fell from the shelves and ceilings of the hovel she shared with her son about two miles east of Master Joseph’s house. The sky was momentarily so bright even with the curtains shut that it was as if a dazzling orange light had been switched on in the room she was sitting in.

“Hello!” she said again into the phone as darkness fell once more – to no avail: it seemed to be dead. Then she looked briefly out of the window towards the west.

“Looks loike Master Joseph’s havin’ one of them thar bonfires of his again! Ah well – all roight for zum! Toime for moi bed, Oi think!”

“Arra!” as the now sadly departed Joe-Boy Kelly might have said himself, “De road to Hell is paved wid the old good intentions!”

The Khalistan Warriors have survived intact and totally undamaged by a bomb plot that they are actually totally oblivious about.

And Jim Proudfoot remains the Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town AFC.

What was he going to do with his suddenly elevated status?

Find out next time in the next scintillating episode of the

Sensational Shrimpleton Saga.